Process of Elimination
by librophile
Summary: John had gone over it time and time again. It just didn't make any sense. Spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall." No slash.
1. Process of Elimination

**Process of Elimination**

"_Eliminate the impossible, John!_"

John sighed heavily and looked down at his scattered notes. His conclusions were disjointed at best, frightening at the worst; the only positive side was that if a burglar or one of Mycroft's men decided to raid his flat, they likely wouldn't be able to decipher his handwriting.

_Eliminate the impossible..._

Very well. It was impossible for his friend to have committed suicide.

But he did.

Or did he?

"_It's all a magic trick_." John started as a sentence from that horrible last conversation invaded his conscience.

_Then if he's not dead..._

_He must be alive_.


	2. Living

Mycroft Holmes glances up from his highly-confidential paperwork as a man enters his office. He unconsciously tenses, remembering their last encounter, but this time his visitor does not even bother with the chair.

"He's alive."

Mycroft's eyes widen and he rocks back slightly in his ornately carved chair, knowing who 'he' is.

"I don't know how, I don't know why, but I know he's alive. You knew about it, didn't you?" The elder Holmes opens his mouth to stammer out an excuse, searching desperately for a proper alibi, but is cut off once again. "No, don't." The visitor holds up a hand, a weary look on his face, then takes the hand up to run along his temples, obviously thinking before he continues aloud, "You won't convince me. I know he's alive, you too judging by the expression on your face. It's enough."

John Watson turns to leave, all military precision and with shoulders that are slightly less bent than at his initial entry. The door swings open under his steady left hand and John departs, closing the door quietly behind him.

Mycroft leans heavily on his desk, deep in his own troubled thoughts as the papers fall, unnoticed, to the floor.


	3. Informations

The man had black hair, oddly-tinted green eyes, and a discontented expression as he looked about the room he'd rented in a backwater French hotel. It had peeling wallpaper, a crack in the doorframe, the seal was broken on the window and the bed almost nothing but lumps, but he couldn't argue with the accommodations. He'd chosen them, after all.

His phone rang in his pocket, and he answered out of reflex. "_Que voulez-vous?_" he barked irritably, still examining the room and trying to figure out how long he would have to stay here. "_Je n'ai pas le temps pour ca maintenant._"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze, his contact covered blue-grey eyes widening with shock. "Mycroft?" Instantly, his accent reverted from that of a backstreet French vagrant back to his native British speech patterns. When he spoke again it was with a touch of alarm. "What is it?"

"It's John."

"What happened?" he asked sharply, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing harmful – physically, anyway." Mycroft's voice was as smooth as usual, though with a hint of tension underlying it.

"What, then?"

"He knows, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes widened again, and he slowly ran a hand through his straightened black hair. "How?" He began pacing, ignoring the fact that given the creak each step drew out of the floorboards he could be heard at least five rooms down the hall.

"In truth I'm uncertain of that, Sherlock. He had apparently been making some notes but they are as indecipherable as _yours_ used to be – whatever language or code he was writing them in. John just marched into my office this morning and told me he knew and that I did as well." Now Mycroft was beginning to sound minorly irritated – whether at Sherlock's questioning or a memory of earlier events, he wasn't sure. "I've looked over the security footage and there's nothing to indicate what helped him make the connection. He has no doubts of your survival."

Sherlock blew out a breath and unconsciously reached for the scarf that wasn't there to straighten it, stopping part way through to let his hand fall limply to his side. "This could be a problem."

"How soon can you be back."

"I've traced Rodolph Trass – if that's really his name, it appears to be a pseudonym –here, but I've yet to locate the man."

"I'll send three agents to replace you."

Sherlock nodded. "Good."

"We'll see you back in four days."

Sherlock heard footsteps passing in the hall and switched back to French. "_Oui, ça ne marchera._"

"Until then."

"_Au revoir_."

Sherlock hung up the phone, then all vestiges of his true identity once more vanished into the manner and appearance of a French vagrant as he left the room.

* * *

_**Author's note:** If the French dialogue isn't flawless, I apologize. It translates as follows:_

_"What is it?"_

_"I don't have time for this right now."_

_"Yes, that will work."_

_"Goodbye."_


	4. Giveaway

John took a deep breath, let it out and stepped out of the taxi onto the sunlit black pavement, absently handing the driver a handful of cash he didn't bother to count. This wasn't any easier than it had been before – he wasn't sure why he'd expected things to be different this time. Sherlock was alive – alive and still out there somewhere in the world.

After all, Mycroft's face had been a dead giveaway.

But in a different way, John decided, eying the crime scene and catching a glimpse of DI Lestrade headed toward him, this really was much easier.

His right leg twinged briefly as he began walking toward Lestrade, but he ignored it and found a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he realized that Lestrade's look of partially hidden relief was remarkably similar to the way he had used to look when Sherlock would appear at crime scenes. Despite himself, he felt his mood lift at the sight of his friend. Lestrade stopped in front of him and John smiled fully.

"Greg," John greeted him cheerfully – maybe too cheerfully, considering the scene likely just beyond the yellow tape. "What am I here for?"


	5. Drawing a Blank

John's mood of cheerfulness evaporated as soon as they entered the room. It wasn't due to the graphic violence of the scene, either – if it hadn't been for the man lying there in the middle of the room, eyes open even in death, the place would have looked completely normal. No weapons, no stains, not a trace.

It reminded him uncomfortably of the case he'd first helped with, with the serial cabby.

"What is this?" John muttered under his breath, frowning.

"His name is Ronnie Adair," Lestrade explained as John bent over the body. "Decent reputation with a habit of playing cards every night, no immediate family, and an ex-fiancée who could be a suspect if it wasn't for the fact she's over in France with an aunt. He seems to have been friends with everyone and had no enemies. The door was locked from the inside – he was only discovered this morning. His housekeeper became concerned that he was ill when he didn't come down for breakfast."

John was almost completely ignoring him at this point. He saw the dead man, the clear lack of a pulse – there were no visible wounds, so likely he had been shot, judging by the swiftness of his death.

Sitting back on his heels, he tried to look at it as Sherlock might (would, likely, when and if he returned to London, but he wouldn't let himself be distracted by that). The victim had on a suit, implying he had likely spent the night at his club, while his hands betrayed the stains of a habitual smoker. Beyond that John found himself at a loss, so he glanced about the room. A bookshelf, a window, a desk with some damp papers scattered haphazardly across a corner of it, along with some money on the desk which had evidently been knocked over by a careless hand. The window was shut.

John walked over and glanced down a full story to the pavement below. No trellis, nothing for anyone to hold onto – and besides which, there was no evidence that anyone else had been in the flat at all. It had rained the day before, and there were no wet marks on the sill.

"Where's the bullet?" John asked Lestrade, frowning.

The silver-haired DI shook his head. "There wasn't one."

John frowned. "Wasn't Adair shot?"

In answer, Lestrade bent and rolled over the body to expose the man's back.

The bullet hole John had been expecting to see was conspicuously absent.


	6. Delays

*_Author's note: A big thank you to my new beta, Book girl fan!_

* * *

**Chapter Six: Delays**

It was dark by now, and Sherlock was annoyed, though he didn't show it. The plane that was supposed to deposit him (anonymously) on the other side of the channel had developed an engine problem, meaning that the one day head-start on Mycroft's schedule was now besides the point. He had somewhere to be, but no way to get there until the part could be brought in.

A scowl broke onto his face as he looked down at the screen of his (actual, original, registered-to-Sherlock-Holmes) phone to read the text again.

_ 'John has been called to Scotland Yard on a case and is now working with them. Suggest you hurry. MH'_

"Well I _would_," Sherlock growled, glaring at the unmoving machinery, "if this flying contraption from who-knows-where would _get off_ _the ground..._"

* * *

Mycroft's phone chimed, and he read his newest message. The slightest trace of a frown briefly darkened his features.

'_My transportation has been delayed. Can't make it until tomorrow. SH_'

As much as Mycroft wouldn't admit it, he had hoped Sherlock would hurry home immediately so that they could be that much closer to the conclusion. John was better at spotting the facts than most, but he was no Sherlock Holmes, as much as he was needed.

Then there was the fact that John's case was suspiciously familiar.

'_Understood. Leave the moment your issue has been concluded. You are needed here immediately. MH_'

Mycroft pressed the send button.


End file.
